English Poets of the Eighteenth Century eBook

I’ve heard them lilting, at our
ewe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn of day:
But now they are moaning, on ilka green
loaning;
The Flowers of the Forest are a’
wede away.

At bughts in the morning nae blythe lads
are scorning;
The lasses are lanely, and dowie, and
wae;
Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing
and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her
away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths
now are jeering,
The bandsters are lyart, and runkled and
gray;
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae
fleeching—­
The Flowers of the Forest are a’
wede away.

At e’en, in the gloaming, nae swankies
are roaming
‘Bout stacks wi’ the lasses
at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her
dearie—­
The Flowers of the Forest are a’
wede away.

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads
to the Border!
The English, for ance, by guile wan the
day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought
aye the foremost,
The prime of our land, lie cauld in the
clay.

We’ll hear nae more lilting at our
ewe-milking,
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning,
The Flowers of the Forest are a’
wede away.

CHARLES CHURCHILL

FROM THE ROSCIAD

[QUIN, THE ACTOR]

His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll,
Proclaimed the sullen habit of his soul.
Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage,
Too proud for tenderness, too dull for
rage.
When Hector’s lovely widow shines
in tears,
Or Rowe’s gay rake dependent virtue
jeers,
With the same cast of features he is seen
To chide the libertine and court the queen.
From the tame scene which without passion
flows,
With just desert his reputation rose.
Nor less he pleased when, on some surly
plan,
He was at once the actor and the man.
In Brute he shone unequalled: all
agree
Garrick’s not half so great a brute
as he.
When Cato’s laboured scenes are
brought to view,
With equal praise the actor laboured too;
For still you’ll find, trace passions
to their root,
Small difference ’twixt the stoic
and the brute.
In fancied scenes, as in life’s
real plan,
He could not for a moment sink the man.
In whate’er cast his character was
laid,
Self still, like oil, upon the surface
played.
Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept
in:
Horatio, Dorax, Falstaff—­still
’twas Quin.